Marriage of Inconvenience
Amelia’s fingers twisted in the silk of her wedding gown as Elisha and Charlotte fussed with her veil. Her heart hammered so violently she feared they might see it through the delicate fabric. In the mirror, her reflection looked like a stranger—pale and wide-eyed beneath the cloud of white tulle.
“You really are stunning,” Elisha whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she adjusted a stray curl. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Amelia watched tears well in her friend’s eyes.
“Don’t you dare cry, Elisha Lancaster.” Amelia reached back to squeeze her hand. “If you start, I’ll start, and I refuse to walk down the aisle looking like a painted cat caught in the rain.”
“Your groom will assume they’re tears of joy.
” Charlotte smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the train, her practical tone belied by the tremor in her voice.
“How could he think otherwise with the marriage contract you’ve signed?
You’ll have more protections than the Crown Jewels,” she jested through her tears.
A sharp rap at the door silenced them. Steven entered, cutting a striking figure in his black suit. For a moment, Amelia saw their father in his proud stance—the little she had glimpsed of him in her childhood. Her throat tightened.
“You look beautiful,” he said softly after greeting Charlotte and Elisha. His eyes shone with unshed tears as he extended his arm. “Shall we?”
Amelia drew in a shaky breath, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of what was about to happen.
In a few minutes, she would no longer be Miss Thornton, respected newspaper editor and independent woman.
She would be Lady Hereford, wife and property to a marquess who had barely looked at her during their countless encounters at literary events.
Steven patted her trembling hand where it rested on his arm. “Come, sister,” he whispered. “Let us begin your future now.”
The words hung in the air like a prayer or perhaps a prophecy. Amelia straightened her spine and lifted her chin, determined to face whatever came next with dignity. Even if her heart felt like a trapped bird in her chest.
*
Hereford stood at the altar, forcing himself to maintain the serene expression expected of a bridegroom despite the growing knot in his stomach. When the organ music began and the church doors opened, he turned, following tradition, and felt a knot form in his chest.
Amelia was crying.
Not the delicate tears of joy he’d seen at other weddings, but continuous weeping she seemed unable to control. Though she held her head high, her shoulders trembled. Steven patted her hand repeatedly as they walked, his own expression grave.
“Steady now,” Hereford heard him whisper as he handed her over.
Her fingers were ice-cold when they touched his. Up close, he could see how she struggled to master herself, each shuddering breath threatening to break into a sob. The sight made something in his chest constrict painfully.
Was the thought of marrying him truly so devastating?
As the vicar began the ceremony, Hereford found himself studying her profile, noting how she bit her lower lip when particularly strong waves of emotion hit her. He’d seen her angry, disdainful, even triumphant, but never like this. Never broken.
Perhaps there was someone else. Some man of letters or fellow journalist who couldn’t offer her marriage but had won her heart nonetheless? Or could it be Norwich she yearned for? The thought shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did.
“I, Charles Eldem Bartholomew…” he repeated mechanically, wondering if her mysterious lover was in the church right now, watching her marry another man.
When it came time for her vows, her voice was barely audible, choked with tears. Hereford had to resist the urge to pull her close, to offer some comfort. But of course, that would only make things worse. She’d made her feelings about him perfectly clear.
One year, he reminded himself as he slipped the ring onto her finger.
Just one year of civil coexistence, then they could both go their separate ways.
Though the thought of twelve months without feminine companionship made him groan internally.
He had no illusions about sharing her bed.
She could barely stand to touch his hand during the ceremony.
“You may kiss the bride,” the vicar announced.
Hereford leaned in carefully, catching the scent of orange blossoms in her hair, the way her tears had caught in her lashes, making them spike into dark stars. Something twisted in his chest again.
His lips brushed hers, featherlight, and he felt her lips tremble.
“I’ll do my utmost,” he whispered, so quietly only she could hear. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as she nodded once, quickly. Hereford offered her his arm, plastering on his most convincing smile as they turned to face their guests. One year. He could do this. Even if her tears felt like accusations against his conscience.
He just wished they didn’t affect him quite so much.
*
The wedding breakfast had been mercifully brief, with only close family and friends in attendance.
Now, as Amelia stood in Hereford’s drawing room—her new home—she felt distinctly out of place among the luxurious furniture and crystal decanters.
Her wedding gown seemed to mock her with its pristine whiteness, a symbol of tradition that held no meaning in this nuptial.
Hereford poured two glasses of brandy without asking if she wanted one. “I assume you’d like to discuss arrangements,” he said, handing her a glass. His cravat was slightly loosened, the only sign that the day had affected him at all.
“Yes.” Amelia accepted the brandy but didn’t drink. “I believe we should establish clear boundaries.”
“Very well.” He leaned against his desk, studying her with those impossibly blue eyes. “Though I must admit, your brother and Lady Carlisle’s demands were quite thorough. What more could you possibly require?”
“To begin with, I expect complete discretion regarding my… physical limitation.” She lifted her chin. “I won’t have you discussing it with anyone of your… acquaintances.”
His expression hardened. “You think rather poorly of me, don’t you?”
“I think exactly what you’ve shown me to think, my lord. So let us be clear. I have no intention of sharing your bed, neither for heirs nor pleasure. You may not seek your entertainment elsewhere either. I won’t have my reputation tarnished by association with your scandals.”
Hereford set down his glass with care. “And what of your own impropriety? Do you plan to continue running about London unchaperoned, visiting gentlemen’s clubs?”
“I plan to continue running my newspaper, yes.” Her voice turned sharp. “That was explicitly covered in the marriage contract.”
“The contract doesn’t specify your behavior.” He straightened, using his height to loom over her. “As your husband, I have certain rights—”
“You have no rights over me beyond what was negotiated. I expect you to honor our marriage contract. This is a business arrangement, nothing more.”
Something flickered in his eyes, but his voice remained controlled. “And you believe you can simply dictate the terms of our marriage bed without consideration for my wishes?”
“You’ve agreed to the terms. Let us not lock the stable door after the horse has bolted.”
Hereford ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its careful styling. “This is precisely why I insisted on the one-year clause. We’re clearly incompatible.”
“On that, at least, we agree.” Amelia finally took a sip of brandy, welcoming its burn.
He was quiet for a long moment, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I know you would have preferred Norwich.”
She cleared her throat and set down her glass. “You needn’t worry about my association with the viscount. I shall maintain my professionalism and interact with him only as business dictates.”
His eyes peered into hers. “Tell me. Did you develop affections for Norwich?”
Amelia stared back, searching her heart for the answer. “I found him pleasant, and I respect his stance on equality. I hadn’t known him long enough to develop any feelings.”
Hereford turned away and poured himself another glass of brandy. When he spoke, his voice had dropped lower, taking on an edge she couldn’t quite interpret. “And you believe that we can simply ignore each other’s existence while living under the same roof?”
“I don’t see why not. The house is certainly large enough.”
He stepped closer, near enough that she could smell his cologne—that familiar scent of leather and spice that had haunted her dreams more often than she cared to admit. “And what if I don’t wish to ignore you?”
Amelia’s heart thundered against her ribs, but she held her ground. “Then that is your misfortune, my lord. I’ve made my position clear.”
“Have you?” His eyes searched her face. “Because I’m beginning to wonder if you protest too much, Miss Thornton. I beg your pardon. I should say, Lady Hereford.”
The new title sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He was closer still, though she couldn’t remember him moving. “Don’t remind you that you’re my wife now? That despite all your conditions and protests, we’re bound together?”
“Only for a year,” she whispered, hating how breathless she sounded.
“A year can be a long time.” His hand rose as if to touch her face, then dropped. “But have it your way, my lady. We’ll maintain our separate lives, ignore the tension between us, and pretend this is nothing more than a marriage of necessity. Though I wonder…”
“What?”
“I wonder which of us you’re trying harder to convince.” He stepped back abruptly, retrieving his glass. “I’ll have Cooper show you to your rooms. I trust you’ll find them satisfactory.”
Amelia gathered her skirts, desperate to escape before he could see how his proximity had affected her. “Perfect. Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Good afternoon… wife.”